When the dogs had been fed, and the other Indians had come in, and squatted on the buffalo-skin with Nicholas, the first course was sent round in tin cups, a nondescript, but warming, “camp soup.”

“Sorry we’ve got so few dishes, gentlemen,” the Colonel had said.  “We’ll have to ask some of you to wait till others have finished.”

“Farva,” remarked Kaviak, leaning out of the bunk and sniffing the savoury steam.

“He takes you for a priest,” said Potts, with the cheerful intention of stirring Mac’s bile.  But not even so damning a suspicion as that could cool the collector’s kindness for his new Spissimen.

“You come here,” he said.  Kaviak didn’t understand.  The Boy got up, limped over to the bunk, lifted the child out, and brought him to Mac’s side.

“Since there ain’t enough cups,” said Mac, in self-justification, and he put his own, half empty, to Kaviak’s lips.  The Spissimen imbibed greedily, audibly, and beamed.  Mac, with unimpaired gravity, took no notice of the huge satisfaction this particular remedy was giving his patient, except to say solemnly, “Don’t bubble in it.”

The next course was fish a la Pymeut.

“You’re lucky to be able to get it,” said the Father, whether with suspicion or not no man could tell.  “I had to send back for some by a trader and couldn’t get enough.”

“We didn’t see any trader,” said the Boy to divert the current.

“He may have gone by in the dusk; he was travelling hotfoot.”

“Thought that steamship was chockful o’ grub.  What did you want o’ fish?”

“Yes; they’ve got plenty of food, but—­”

“They don’t relish parting with it,” suggested Potts.

“They haven’t much to think about except what they eat; they wanted to try our fish, and were ready to exchange.  I promised I would send a load back from Ikogimeut if they’d—­” He seemed not to care to finish the sentence.

“So you didn’t do much for the Pymeuts after all?”

“I did something,” he said almost shortly.  Then, with recovered serenity, he turned to the Boy:  “I promised I’d bring back any news.”  “Yes.”

“Well?”

Everybody stopped eating and hung on the priest’s words.

“Captain Rainey’s heard there’s a big new strike—­”

“In the Klondyke?”

“On the American side this time.”

“Hail Columbia!”

“Whereabouts?”

“At a place called Minook.”

“Where’s that?”

“Up the river by the Ramparts.”

“How far?”

“Oh, a little matter of six or seven hundred miles from here.”

“Glory to God!”

“Might as well be six or seven thousand.”

“And very probably isn’t a bona-fide strike at all,” said the priest, “but just a stampede—­a very different matter.”

“Well, I tell you straight:  I got no use for a gold-mine in Minook at this time o’ year.”